


Three Musketeers and Two Bets

by libraryv



Series: Shots of Musketeer Adrenaline [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action, Bets & Wagers, Brawling, Fist Fights, Gen, Musketeers, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-27 13:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: A quiet evening turns decidedly less so when Porthos makes an unwise bet, and d'Artagnan and Athos are drawn in.





	1. The First Bet

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for violence associated with a multi-person fist fight.

The first fist came out of nowhere, and it was so quickly withdrawn that d'Artagnan had a moment's confusion: had he hit his face on something?

He barely had time to blink, reeling, his jaw lit and sparking with agony, before he felt another blow to his side. He tried to heave a breath, but was stopped by a sharp elbow to the ribs.

A single clear thought rose up through the quickly-building fog of pain: he was _not_ doing well in this fight. 

Another wild thought: he had assumed getting punched would feel softer, somehow. Like absorbing an echo of pain. 

Well. 

Now he knew.

He stumbled a few steps, throwing a random punch at one of the men’s faces and getting lucky; he felt his knuckles connect with skin, and that bought him a few precious moments.

His face was a blazing beacon of hurt, and he tried to _think_, tried to order his sluggish brain to dredge up instructions, but this was not a sword fight. This was not a game that he played well, and he couldn’t see his next move. 

“D’Artagnan! Your righ’! Watch your RIGHT!” 

Porthos’ booming voice erupted somewhere behind him, and there was only one word that sunk in. 

Dazed, d’Artagnan turned himself stupidly to the right, and another set of knuckles embedded itself into his cheek with a cheerful crunch.

He was bent double, and he saw Porthos’ boots come into view. He looked up and found himself behind the solid wall of the big musketeer’s back, protecting him from the fray. D’Artagnan gasped, and with an amused detachment, saw a long line of red-flecked drool glistening and unspooling to the floor. 

_Is that from my mouth?_

It was. He was folded in half, jaw hanging open, his hands on his knees, and the tavern’s flagstone floor was rushing up at him. 

_No._

He was a Musketeer, and he wouldn’t let Porthos down. 

He spat out a rusty glob onto the floor, then wrenched himself upright, only to feel white hot pain burst at the back of his head. He felt embarrassed, somehow, as if he had tripped, and heard himself mumble an apology to Porthos’ back as he crashed forward into it. The room tilted wildly sideways, and he fell to his knees on the floor.

_Twenty minutes earlier._

The autumn sun was setting in the small town of Sevres, bathing its sleepy buildings in a resplendent glow. It was a night made for quiet contentment. 

D’Artagnan wove his way through the front room of the inn, deliberately relaxing his hips and dropping his shoulders back to add a touch of swagger. Their mission had gone well, and the stiffness of his new leather pauldron felt like an entire shield. He felt unstoppable. A young woman made eye contact with him and he gave her a grin and a wink.

He spotted Porthos hunched over a table with a group of men and headed that way, smiling.

It was a well-known fact that Porthos loved to gamble. 

Perhaps a better-known fact: the largest Musketeer was, unfortunately, the least lucky. 

D’Artagnan stopped and grinned down at the cards laid out at the table, meeting Porthos’ eyes. 

“Athos has the horses saddled; we’re ready to leave.”

“Ah.” The large Musketeer tugged at his moustache, his expression sheepish.

“The thing is, d’Artagnan, I may not be ready to leave jus’ yet.” 

The younger man looked at Porthos’ opponents at the table, who smiled coldly in return. Dawning realization and prior experience had d’Artagnan saying, 

“You bet our horses, didn’t you?”

Porthos chuckled uncomfortably as the men shifted, his hand spread out in a placating gesture. 

“I was losing, an’ I figured my luck was due to turn.”

D’Artagnan had a wild desire to put his head in his hands. Slight panic was hovering as he pictured telling Athos that Porthos had gambled away their horses. He felt the sturdy Musketeer’s eyes on him, and knew Porthos was thinking the same thing. 

“You know what must happen,” said d’Artagnan, and Porthos sighed. 

“I must throw my hand in.” 

Porthos gave him a sudden grin and let loose a deep laugh of delight as he slapped d’Artagnan on the back. 

“Tha’s my boy!” 

D’Artagnan pulled out the last remaining chair and sat down with a nod to the four other men. He placed his small bag of coins on the table and gave them a casual grin.

“Gentlemen. Let’s play.”


	2. The Second Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan may be good at cards, but he's not as handy in a fist fight...and where is Athos?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love puppy!d'Art as much as anyone (and our boy is SUCH a puppy) but I like playing with the idea that everyone underestimates him. He may be enthusiastic and unseasoned, but he's bright and actually pretty savvy. I re-read "The Three Musketeers" recently and it's actually mentioned more than once that d'Artagnan is exceptionally quick at math, which gave me the idea for this one. 
> 
> Also, can't take credit for the idea of having their horses gambled away - that's Dumas as well, except it's Athos (!) who gambles their horses and saddles away (before winning it all back) so he showed up in this one as well. :D

The other men were all too happy to deepen their pockets, and one of them began dealing out cards to d’Artagnan, who gave them a scan; it was a very good hand. Was it good enough? 

The men went round the table, placing their wagers. 

The dealer was looking at him expectantly.

“Well?”

D’Artagnan met the man’s smirking eyes, trying as hard as he could to channel Athos’ aloof confidence.

“Well monsieur, we need our horses back, so I shall say double or nothing.”

The man snorted. 

“What’s the guarantee?”

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes, though his heart was beating fast. If he lost, they were done for.

“My word of honour, which you shouldn’t question.”

The dealer laughed.

“You have a deal, foolhardy young Musketeer that you are.”

D’Artagnan was aware that his age and Gascon country heritage worked against him; he knew his reputation as an overeager, adopted puppy. 

Yet there was power in having his opponent underestimate him, and d’Artagnan knew this as well. He was new enough to the regiment that even Porthos and Athos would have been surprised to learn that he was fairly skilled with numbers, and an asset at the gambling table.

He did some quick mental calculating as the first round went through; watching the cards that were discarded. He could be wrong, but had a pretty good feeling about his chances. 

His turn, and it was time to see if risk would be rewarded. He put down one card from his hand and picked up another from the deck, desperately trying to keep his normally expressive features even. 

Last round. The other men confidently played their hands, then, probability ringing in his head, d’Artagnan placed his own cards down. 

The men stopped chuckling.

The dealer looked from d’Artagnan’s winning hand to the deck, then back again.

“You cheated.”

“I assure you, I didn’t.”

The two men stared at each other. A challenge, then, and if these men thought he’d back down, they didn’t know him. D’Artagnan got to his feet and leaned forward, placing both his palms flat on the table.

“I believe I won our horses back.”

The dealer stood as well.

“You believe wrong. Besides which, we’ve promised our winnings to our captain.” 

He indicated some men, seated a few tables over, who were sitting and watching the proceedings with frosty interest. He pointed a grubby finger at d’Artagnan’s chest.

“You cheated, and you’re taking those horses over my dead body.”

D’Artagnan felt Porthos stand beside him, chuckling darkly. 

“If the lad said he didn’ cheat, then he didn’t cheat. As for your dead body; tha’ can easily be arranged.”

The other men stood and gathered around the dealer, cracking their knuckles and shifting on their feet.

D’Artagnan could sense what was coming, and panic was freezing in his chest. 

Give him a sword, and he could easily beat a whole roomful of men. Put Athos at his side and he could fight a hundred. 

He was a decent enough shot with a musket, and getting better with Aramis’ steady tutelage. 

But a fist fight? He could barely consider himself competent. 

Without warning, the dealer threw a punch, and d’Artagnan had just enough presence of mind to lift his hands off the table and back up as Porthos shouted a warning. The men came out from behind the table, advancing.

The dealer took another swing at Porthos, who caught the fist and had the man in a headlock, and it was only a few seconds later that d’Artagnan found himself smack in the middle of a brawl.

_Twenty minutes later._

On his knees, his cheek flaring with agony, his chest heaving, d’Artagnan’s world consisted of pain. He had a vague understanding that he had to get back to his feet and help Porthos, but he couldn’t make the room stop spinning. 

He had just placed a knuckle on the cool stone floor, trying to brace himself, when he felt a firm hand on his upper arm, hauling him up to his feet. He allowed the help, swerved up, and nearly crashed his forehead into the brim of Athos’ hat. A quick impression of blue eyes, of relief at the aid, before Athos had already turned and sent a man sprawling to the floor with a ruthless knee to the stomach. 

Porthos was the undisputed master of might, but perhaps surprisingly, Athos was a close second. The graceful swordsman knew exactly how to throw the weight of his slim frame to maximum effect, and he had pushed himself into the flurry of fists and knees. 

“Keep movin’ your weight forward!” Porthos shouted over his shoulder.

D’Artagnan heard it, and desperately threw an elbow up into a man’s chin, letting momentum carry him past the hit, ready for another one. Encouraged, d’Artagnan kept going, and threw his weight sideways as he barreled his body into another man. He could feel the satisfying impact of his own force, and he followed it up with a punch, the breath leaving his own lungs.

It was working; he had been static before, but now he tried to let his own momentum guide him, not quite stopping after each blow. He whirled around again, and even though he received a stinging punch somewhere near his ribcage, he was already moving away from it, and it didn’t land as hard as it should have.

In fact, not only was it working, but with both Athos’ help and Porthos’ advice, d’Artagnan could feel the tide turning. He could sense that the hits coming in his direction were fewer and further apart. 

A few more moments, and Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan had sent the four men to the floor, cowering, scared faces peeking over raised elbows.

The other guests of the tavern, who had stopped to watch the action unfold, proceeded to turn back to their own affairs, and the steady roar of conversation pitched back to full volume.

The beaten men got up and scrambled awkwardly away, nursing their bumps and wounded pride.

The three friends looked at each other. Porthos was cheerfully dabbing at the blood trickling from a large gash on his forehead, and Athos’ elegant features were becoming unrecognizably swollen on the right side. He took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair.

D’Artagnan gave a sympathetic wince, indicating Athos’ face.

“Oh believe me, you look equally handsome,” said Athos dryly.

Porthos laughed while Athos’ sharp gaze took in d’Artagnan’s face, the lieutenant’s cool fingers grazing gently over his younger brother’s cheekbone, testing. Athos let out a relieved breath.

“Not broken.”

He shook his head wryly at Porthos, whose face split into a broad grin.

“Nah, the lad’s made of iron.”

Athos gave Porthos a stern look and d’Artagnan one of pride as he replaced his hat. He pulled the scarf from his neck and dunked part of it into a nearby glass of water. He held out it out to d’Artagnan, who put the cold wet cloth gratefully to his throbbing cheek.

“Now wha’?” Porthos rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly. “We don’ have a way back to Paris.”

“The horses are ours,” said Athos.

Porthos looked over, surprised. “Those men weren’ going to let their winnings go so easy. How’d you manage tha’?”

Athos’ gaze was studiously neutral as he pulled the brim of his hat lower.

“I made a bet with those other gentlemen.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged an astonished look.

“Wha’ was the bet?”

Athos’ eyes were lit with sly amusement.

“On us winning the fight, of course.”

He looked at them, letting a slow smile curve his lips, and even though he was sore, and tired, and it felt like it meant his face would split open, d'Artagnan joined Porthos in a deep and happy burst of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me what game they're playing here - some kind of early form of poker? I love card games, but like d'Art, have trouble with them due to my own inability to keep my expression neutral. 
> 
> As usual, I hope it was a shot of pure fun, and the details matter less than the good time you had spent with the boys.


End file.
